Without Fear or Favour, Affection or Ill Will
by pennydreddful
Summary: It's the story no one asked for! Caused by Dredd movie verse, informed by the comics, a product of my distorted headcanon. Anderson's a Manderson with a personality that's not so canon and also the stuff of Dredd's nightmares. Which, of course, Anderson can and does see. M for developing chapters; eventual Dranderson. Title from the UK Judicial Oath.
1. Chapter 1

I like to know what I'm getting into in a fic, so for your reading convenience, here lie all the warnings I can think to give. I'm really just scrawling this story down because bizarre drabbly little segments come to me and I wanted to see if I could wrangle them into a cohesive arc. The 2012 movie prompted my Dredd curiosity and reinforced my dislike of the 1995 atrocity. I've read a fair amount of the comics and reference them but this is a fic, and it takes some massive liberties.

This will end up being rather slashtastic. My headcanon mess of an Anderson is a guy. He shares life events with the Cassandra Anderson we know and adore from the comics (and the Psychic Crime Files are awesome) but has a rather different personality.

**If slash or deviation from absolute canon Dredd squicks you out at all, this is probably not the party train you want to climb aboard.** (If you want to read some actually hilarious and classic Dredd, pop to your preferred local shop and pick up The Day the Law Died or the Cursed Earth Saga. There's also a ton of crossovers and of course, all the Case Files.)

Naturally, Dredd is Dredd, but things are going to bend way out of your expected canon to give him an arc and development. I do reference pretty well-known comic events but the chronology has obviously been fiddled with, I'll try to note that whenever I think of it.

That's all for now; I'll try to update regularlyishsorta. If it is your type of fic, I hope it's enjoyable!

* * *

Dredd usually anticipated the nightly routine of taking off his uniform with a certain resistance. He liked being able to seal up inside of it and always felt underprepared for an imagined multitude of assaults when he shed it. Tonight though, he was very grateful for the heat of the shower. His last call of the day had resulted in a very fine mist of liquefied organs splattering in places he didn't dwell on because of a poorly placed high ex shot from the rookie he'd been forced to drag along.

It wasn't so much that the Chief Judge had unloaded the kid on him permanently as one previous day of evaluation had pushed him into the unfamiliar position of social obligation. He certainly didn't feel accountable for the current partnership or whatever it was. Their first run out culminated in the Peach Trees fiasco and should have been conclusive enough to part ways forever. But after another day of mentorship, it turned into a couple of months of mentorship, and someone who was irritably scrubbing innards out of his hair started to wonder how the kid hadn't been scared away yet or gotten them both killed. And, honestly, how the splatter of organs worked themselves far enough under his helmet to begin with. He couldn't decide which was more unsettling.

So it wasn't unreasonable for him to stumble back into a fumbled defensive posture when he returned to his bedroom to find a smirking Anderson cross-legged and peering up at him over case files. The grin his face widened into was the same downright predatory expression worn when he would prowl after easily taken rookies. Dredd exhaled and growled out "Nice shot," before Anderson could begin speaking.

"I did hit all intended targets," he supplied, setting down the case files and stretching his legs out in front of him on Dredd's narrow bed. His hair was wet and he showed absolutely no trace of the previous hour.

"You hit an entire building," Dredd remarked, receding into a hooded sweatshirt unsurprisingly emblazoned with the Hall of Justice insignia.

Anderson smoothly ignored the critique and squinted at the attire. "You ever, you know, not cheerlead for the law?" Anderson poked, drawing out the last word and flopping onto his back.

"You ever respect it? That door was locked," he shot back.

"Locked to the talentless. They don't trust you with state secrets for a reason, I could read you from across the galaxy," Anderson pointed to the door's keypad.

Dredd grumbled and advanced towards the bookshelves that were the only distinct feature in the spartan room. He glared accusingly at the volumes, neatly arranged and (Anderson suppressed a guffaw, were they drokking _alphabetized_?) selected one that looked a little more yellowed than the others. Anderson watched him shuffle around, eyes precise and attentive as he analyzed his movements. It never ceased to fascinate him that someone who communicated almost solely through the physical medium would disappear at the end of long day defending the law to read more about it. Anderson wondered how he was able to tolerate the hypocrisy of doing that and still resolutely ignoring the existence of paperwork in any and all forms. It seemed too dissonant for someone who functioned so black-and-white.

Dredd felt the examination on his back and halted at the foot of the narrow bed as he passed towards the apartment's small table. He bristled, "Need something?"

Anderson sat up and leaned towards him, giving a generous and obvious appraisal of his form. "Offering?"

After two months, he knew better than to accidentally bait Anderson by dignifying his passes with a response. He assumed that the statements were a product of his natural modus operandi and wasn't concerned with taking them seriously enough to deflect them. Besides, fraternization with other judges was against the law.

He kept moving, faintly wondering why the the Chief Judge hadn't been compelled to dump this particularly blond personification of everything Dredd hated about human interaction on someone else for punishment.

Anderson raised an eyebrow. "Well," he started conclusively, selecting a file folder from the manila hued castoffs he'd flung around the room and smacking it against Dredd's chest, "we're doing this tomorrow."

Dredd accepted it and palmed it open with one hand, reading and memorizing pertinent facts quickly. He grunted noncommittally and tossed the file back at Cass.

"Come on, is that all the enthusiasm you can muster for justice?" Anderson prodded. "I thought we could bond, maybe get shot together again. I could supply my radiant charm, you could grunt and scowl…"

"Why are you on my bed, still?" Dredd's voice slipped into the only variant tone it seemed to contain-Anderson-induced irritation.

"Don't we talk about it now? Chief Judge specifically told me to learn eeeeverything I can from you," Anderson said. He hopped off the bed and stood right in Dredd's path.

"You're being a specific pain in the ass. It's past midnight, I need to scrub the guts off of my 'giver and devise a way to make you a mute before I spend another day babysitting."

Anderson nodded, raising his hands and backing towards the door. "Alright, point taken, the big words are out so you _must_ be serious. Enjoy your wild night in," he added with an obscene gesture, pointing to the book in his hands. Dredd just narrowed his eyes (not that they weren't entirely shielded by his hood) and tightened his jaw imperceptibly.

When the door slid shut again, he smacked the book on the table and sat down to begin dismantling his gut-encrusted weapon. _Drokking rookie._


	2. Chapter 2

My penchant for 1000 word and less chapters needs to be incinerated. I'll make up for it by having a metric fuckton of them on the way; just trying to get the chronology of everything right.

So here's Anderson having a sass attack at DeMarco.

(As promised, comic background when I remember. She's the one judge ever to 1. not be prosecuted by Dredd for breaking regulations and 2. to actively try to get into his pants. Another judge tries to settle his Dredd envy by making the whole incident into something it wasn't. DeMarco retires and becomes a PI with Dredd's help, shows up in the Second Robot War. Roughly Progs 900-1100ish if you're curious).

* * *

Anderson sighed and dropped his head back as he descended the stairs, helmet hanging loosely from one hand. It was a hideously long day with the assignment he'd picked out the night before. He thought he had chosen one that sounded relatively low-risk. He concluded that he was going to have to redefine his parameters for low risk while in the Meg. His descent slowed a little more as overworked muscles (why was Dredd's jogging pace his sprinting pace?) became more resistant. Whatever the drokk Dredd actually sent him down for better be pornographic-grade legal thrills or he was going to self-immolate in the middle of Dredd's apartment. He chuckled to himself-Dredd would _never_ get his ashes out of the carpet.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he was greeted by the hunched little old woman who attended the library with a big, enthusiastic "Hello Cass!" He was so glad his lobby to keep her rather than replacing her with another bot had been successful.

Cass couldn't really remember a time that Nona hadn't been in the law library and very excited to see him without any ulterior motive. He returned her bright smile and accepted her generous hug like always. Handing over his lawgiver, he accepted the claim tag she gave him and watched her fiddling with it. Noticing her shaky fingers, Cass gently pulled the weapon away from her, removed the magazine and handed it back with another smile.

He dragged his sore form past Nona over to the library catalogue and extracted a crumpled piece of paper from his thigh pocket, sighing a little at the writing obscured by a blood splatter. For a guy that keeps immaculate Judge's logs (Anderson's favorite was still the one he scrawled out in a fury and then erased: 28.5.2012: Rookie Anderson illuminates motives for judge-on-judge assault.) Dredd's handwriting looked like it was executed with taser instead of pen.

"In..name of…law…" Anderson murmured, poking his tongue between his teeth as he typed it in. He fluffed his floppy wreck of a hairstyle and leaned back in his chair while the machine emitted grinding sounds as if this search would be its last.

"So you're what they decided to lob at him," a pretty girl with a bob popped into his frame of vision and he inclined his head to regard her. "Got to say, not sure if I feel worse for him or for you based on the shitstorm you've kicked up over the last couple of weeks. He's not easy to work with."

Cass appraised her and turned to face her. "My reputation doesn't start and end with Dredd," he titled his head, ever-arrogant smirk fighting against blooming into a smile. She looked familiar in the foggy sense that comes from seeing a person in someone else's mind before you meet them.

"Must annoy the hell out of him," she turned to face him more fully.

"It may," he replied.

"Wouldn't you know?" her eyes travelled up to his hair and she gestured. Anderson narrowed his eyes and drifted from her question enough to wonder if she had just implied his psychic abilities resided in his hair.

"You know how he tends to sound like a drokking stampede when he's walking softly? Now imagine a parallel universe where he was talkative and you got the treat of that rattling around while you're trying to take down a perp," he explained. The girl nodded patiently.

"I stopped listening after about a day." He hadn't.

"Find what's in there to be pretty dull." He didn't.

"And nothing great comes from heckling him about it." It definitely did. Would.

"You're a shit liar," she countered. He raised his eyes to her.

"And for such a prodigy back in the day, you're a drokking awful private detective, DeMarco."

She didn't miss a beat at the unexpected identification, even if the slight about her (distant) past twinged a little. "It doesn't take an investigation to deduce that there's something off about Dredd keeping a rookie long enough to call him a partner."

"Partner is an extraordinarily strong word. He's still trying to shuffle me off to someone else, actually. Maybe a little more thorough "investigating" _wouldn't _be out of order for you," he air-quoted sarcastically. "I was going to assume that's why you're using that adorable pass to trawl through the exceptional selection of fine literature down here, but I can't imagine they really want to see too much of you. Unless-don't tell me they're hiring on discarded judges for internal investigations now, it would all look a bit desperate. For everyone."

"You know what the fucked up part about this situation is? You actually care enough to be indignant," DeMarco rose, clutching a few photocopied pages to her chest and making to leave.

Anderson remained comfortably draped over his chair. "You know what's sincerely fucked? I actually _know_ enough about him to give a drokk. You developed a fetish for a helmet with a vocabulary of grunts."

DeMarco clamped her jaw shut but her nostrils flared. She had resigned over Dredd and was none too pleased about some punk kid shooting off about an incident he was probably too young for. Particularly that incident.

_Dredd certainly wouldn't have mentioned it, why would he be thinking it… _her musing showed in the furrow of her forehead.

He gave a smile that showed teeth. "No, shhh…don't analyze any of that too closely, it could really unravel some fantasies. Like that one that just bubbled up. Pretty sure his eyes aren't that shit romance novel blue you're dreaming of, but I'll give you points for imagination." He stood before she could reply, tipping his helmet to her with a mock curtsey before swaying back up to Nona's desk. Nona, thank Grud, had already re-inserted the magazine of his lawgiver and powered it up for him. He waved goodbye and pranced up the stairs.

"Drokk me." A few steps outside of the law library and almost to the lift to get back to Psi-Div, he rolled his eyes indulgently. Cass glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the library and back up to the lift. There's no way Dredd didn't already have the book he'd sent him for memorized. Definitely not worth the walk. He reached up to his radio.

"Dredd. Anderson. I am eating while we sort out this drokking paperwork. Be home with dinner in twenty, darling dearest miiiine!" He smirked while he gave a pause in the unlikely event that Dredd responded one way or another. Tapping his radio off, he picked up his pace and made a beeline for the nearest noodle cart.


	3. Chapter 3

The trill of Anderson's hideous endearment crackling in his radio and he slammed a fist down on it. It faded out.

Dredd snarled silently, shifting his eyes to his helmet. He had just suited down for the day with the expectation that Anderson would get lost deep in the Hall library or, hopefully, distracted by some willing and simple rookie who was easily flattered into bed. Knowing that Anderson would soon be kneeing the door open in a flurry of papers and those ridiculous noodle cartons he so favoured, he grimaced. Maybe he could make it to the sleep machine before Anderson arrived and set it for a coma instead of the standard ten minutes that made up a full night's sleep.

Hauling himself up from where he was seated, midway through the nightly endeavour of cleaning out his lawgiver, he snatched one of the bespangled Hall of Justice jackets off of his bed. Pulling the hood down to where it grazed his nose, he sat back down and popped the chamber out of his weapon.

He heard a quick succession of footsteps in the stairwell outside, light enough that they had to be Anderson. He looked to the door, seeing that it was locked with the fresh code he'd generated after Cass had materialized uninvited three days ago. Dredd kept at aligning the digital sights on the gun that lay in pieces in a semicircle around him. Squinting through them, he heard Cass bang his forehead against the door while he dug the code out of Dredd, clicked in the code and kneed it open. He took a deep breath.

"Eroh," Anderson greeted, mouth full of something from one of the precariously balanced takeout boxes.

"Hmph," Dredd replied, not rising. He looked on with disdain when Anderson released several reams of paperwork into Dredd's lap, grinning and swallowing his food.

"Tell your main lady she's still the only one but we have some work to do," he said, pushing all the parts of his lawgiver to one side, clattering the carefully arrayed pieces into a heap. He dropped to the floor by Dredd, crossing his legs and plowing into his noodle box.

Dredd watched him, resigned to his organization getting whipped into a froth by the unselfconscious tempest squinting at the cover of a report across from him. Picking up a fork from where Anderson had dropped utensils next to the takeout, he reached over and twirled some noodles away from Cass, neatly popping them into his mouth.

Cass stopped mid-slurp and looked up at him in wonder.

"You eat?" he managed, gulping and scrutinizing him.

Dredd pursed his lips and grabbed the nearest report, far more interested in picking up an assignment than filling out some bureaucratic trifle on a judgement he'd already passed for a sentence he'd already delivered. Honestly. Street judge, not paperwork monkey.

Anderson scooted a box towards Dredd. "Yours," he murmured, trying to eat with one hand and scribble in some account of the day's proceedings.

Dredd reached over again and absconded with more of Cass' noodles.

"Hey!" he protested, pulling his box closer to his body.

"Already open," Dredd gestured to the box Cass was cradling defensively. Cass picked up the box Dredd had ignored and dropped it directly on the report he was skimming.

Dredd popped it open and started to eat without comment.

Cass was still squinting at him. The idea of outrageously stoic Dredd needing to eat and moreover, essentially stealing his food was indescribably unsettling. That was the type of shit Cass pulled. No one ever did it to him.

_Wait._

"Did you think I was trying to poison you?" he asked incredulously.

"What?" Dredd replied absently, still skimming the paper in his hands, noodles almost cleared.

"You took mine because you thought I was trying to kill you with drokking _noodles_?!" Cass sounded offended.

Dredd lifted his head just enough that Cass got a rare glance at his eyes. At times like this, Dredd was usually broadcasting a strong sentiment about Cass' "marginal" test scores. Seeing the expression he wore sort of completed the picture of absolute contempt that happened in the privacy of his helmet.

Cass sat back and finished off his noodles with an obnoxious chowing noise. _The drokk just happened, _he puzzled, his brows pulled into a furrow.

"Tomorrow," Dredd said, sliding the report on a hysterical junkie across to Cass. They had the distinct pleasure of chasing him through the megablock where he'd been hallucinating profoundly enough to start playing hide and seek in other people's homes. The unfortunate bit was the fact that, being on his own turf, he'd evaded several other judges, none of which understood the jargony pontification he'd taken to hollering out before he disappeared into air ducts and other difficult-to-follow crevices.

Cass took it and read a paragraph in, confused at why they'd bother Dredd with something so trivial until he got to the language barrier.

"So they need you because you have me," he concluded. "Cute. Now can you actually do some of this shit with me? Apparently my marksmanship is a matter of concern for you too."

Dredd thought back to the screams of his building's housekeeper when she discovered the blood trails all over the bathroom after the gorefest of a shower a couple of days ago, courtesy Anderson's shit aim.

"What do I have to sign?" he picked up a pen and held it like it was going to turn and bite him.

"You have to _write_," Cass relished Dredd's tightened grip on the frail plastic at the word, "a complete report on it. Since I'm your responsibility," he beamed, handing the heavy stack of forms over. "Tell them how I'll always be your faaaaaaavourite rookie," he added, brushing the floppy mess of his hair over to one side and rising from the floor. His completed paperwork sat in a neat pile.

Dredd's face was typically stoic in the shadow of his hood. He started to write (a quick process that obviously wasn't savoured), handing his empty box to Anderson without looking up. Cass reached the door and slipped through it.

Dredd let out a breath, thankful that he hadn't felt compelled to howl some gross term of endearment at him on his departure as usual.

Suddenly he dug his pen into the paper hard and scraped a diagonal cut across them as his peace was severed by a pitchy wail from the stairwell.

"Until the morrowwwwwwww, o light of my life, fire of my loins, knight in scowling armourrrrrrrrrrrrrr!" Cass snickered to himself. Not his most creative or cutting, but he could just picture the contortion of rage on Dredd's face. No one else in the building could mistake who he was yelling at or the fact that he was leaving his apartment well past midnight.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day went the predictable route of panting his way up too many flights of stairs with sweat stinging the corners of his eyes and matting down his hair.

Anderson twitched uncomfortably, eyes skittering across the floor to measure if it was even a little possible to reach his lawgiver from where he was held. His captor seemed equally unsettled. Anderson noted the sweat that dripped off the man and on to his uniform with distinct displeasure. The guy was exceptionally strong and he seemed to be taking his stress out on the wrists he'd twisted behind Anderson. The knife at his neck seemed like a last minute, halfhearted addition as the thunderous footfalls in the hallway heralded Dredd having caught up with them. Anderson closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the taller man's chest to help facilitate the mental link. The perp's nervousness made most thoughts betraying his guilt float right to the surface. Not wanting to linger suspiciously, Cass straightened his shoulders and brought his head back up as Dredd breached the doorway. He quirked his mouth at the sight.

The perp holding him perked up and started shouting threats, waving the knife about carelessly and repeatedly resting it near Anderson's neck but away from his skin. His dialect was so embedded that even Cass had a hard time deciphering the street jargon pouring out of him. Still not fussed considering he had a lawgiver versus a short bit of metal, he flipped his hair out of his eyes and commanded Dredd to take the shot.

"That's not how procedure works," Dredd remarked, holding his weapon steady.

"Oh fuck's sake Dredd, shoot him and I'll give evidence later!" Cass protested.

"Not without a judgeme-" the perp started squawking and flailing again. In the flurry of his gesticulations, he turned Anderson to face him, keeping his arms too secured to permit an escape.

"Assault on a judge! Twenty years isocubes!" Dredd yelled instantaneously, tracking the perp's movement with his lawgiver while yelling for him to comply.

"Fucking _seriously?!_" Anderson spat over his left shoulder to determine what the drokk Dredd was hesitating for. In the minuscule time that took, pain from the right dragged his face back to face the perp and once they locked eyes again, he felt a vertical row of nerves on his lips flare up and coil in on themselves. He cringed, the sensation replacing itself with the warm frothing of blood trickling out of a mouth wound. Adrenaline spiked through him and he pushed his tongue forward to taste it, flooding his palate with blood. He noticed his heart rate skyrocket and his psychic function sharpen without his control. He'd trained to control the energy drain caused by the same response in other stressful situations, but realistically he was all reaction and his recollection of training came ex post facto.

As Dredd took large strides across the room to defray the situation a little more personally, Anderson grinned, teeth and blood all one grotesque jigsaw. He exploited the perp's temporarily slackened grip to seize his skull between his hands and spit a mouthful of blood into his face. Digging his fingers into the man's scalp provided much more violent mental contact than he would usually care to perform, but he succeeded in withdrawing the final evidence of the man's culpability for the trail of drug distribution they'd just chased him through. Anderson's lack of preparation left the man stunned as he withdrew from his mind. Before he stepped back, he dipped down to lick a stripe of his blood off the man's face. Just as he released him, Dredd laid his lawgiver against the perp's temple and delivered one point-blank round the second Cass' hands were clear.

Anderson titled his head to observe the crackling thump of the effectively beheaded man on Dredd's boots. He cocked his head to regard the mess, blood dripping from his mouth and running into the creases of his street armor.

Dredd turned to scrutinize his partner. Cass looked a little more wild eyed than usual, but nothing about his posture indicated an impending psychic panic.

"Here," he unstrapped his field dressing kit and approached. Anderson slumped back against the wall, holding his jaw askew to avoid disturbing the flapping flesh of his lips.

Dredd slipped his left hand under Cass' jaw and held it taut between his fingers. There was no way to clean it off without directly interfering with the parted skin.

"I have to suture it now. We'll get you to medical once we're back."

Cass nodded, reaching up and gripping Dredd's left forearm for support. He couldn't read Dredd's expression and wasn't going to drokk around with his headspace when he'd somehow ended up in his actual space. His hand moved deliberately and carefully as he applied what were effectively self-sealing staples. Cass inhaled sharply and gave a shudder under him, digging his fingers into the bracer on his arm.

Dredd stabilized his jaw by applying a little more pressure and hurrying the application of the second suture before Cass could squirm too much.

"There." He stepped back and Anderson remained in his position. He nodded his thanks, catching his breath and trying to focus his nerves on anything but his sensitive face.

Dredd turned to leave the building, tapping his radio and explaining the mess he'd left for the meat wagon.

"Dredd, orders to stay in vicinity for follow-up briefing and official documentation complet-" Dredd tapped the radio again lightly and continued walking, stooping at the end of the corridor to pick up Cass' stray lawgiver. Once Anderson fell in step with him outside the building, he glanced over and held the weapon out for Cass to accept. Anderson just raised an eyebrow and Dredd recalled last night's threat to make him a mute.

"Anderson, did you lose your Lawmaster on top of everything?"

"Hmm?" he replied, moving towards the single vehicle in front of them and placing a lean leg over it.

"Drokk…" Dredd muttered, scanning the courtyard for traces of his bike. Anderson didn't fire up his 'master and scanned the area too, making a displeased noise of pain when he reflexively smirked. He really just wanted to be immobile for the rest of the night, but the situation was shaping up to be entertaining.

Dredd heard the small noise and turned to see Cass pointing to a spot behind a planter holding mostly dead leaves and the pitiful branches of a tree that looked like it had an encounter with a firestorm. The cement was jagged and smoking, blackened unmistakably except for a small man-shaped patch and a matching set of wheels.

Dredd's frown managed to deepen by several degrees as he took a constricted breath and stalked towards Anderson.

"Get off. I'm driving."

"Drokk no you aren't!" Cass fumbled the words out of the left side of his mouth.

"They have overrides, rookie," Dredd declared.

"Absolutely not," Cass insisted. "I had it modified."

His brain spewed forth all the regulations that violated and their appropriate punishments but Dredd stood there, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot while alternately gripping and releasing his holstered lawgiver. It was the second time Dredd had done his bizarre uncertainty dance and Cass would later applaud this twitch since it indicated that Dredd could understand social cues enough to perceive awkwardness.

"You're injured," he finally forced out, clearly having spent his long moment of contemplation producing just those two words.

"Fine now," he said.

Cass could feel the extreme discomfort shooting off of Dredd as his mouth opened and closed with quickly conceived and instantly rejected possible statements. It made him want to smile, but he just leaned forward on his bike and slumped his shoulders, quietly and patiently waiting for Dredd to make a decision. The pain from his mouth was sending waves of discomfort up to his eyeball and watching Dredd fumble was the right kind of sadistic distraction at the moment.

"I could fail you for this," he grumbled, gingerly sidling up to the bike and sizing up how to mount it with the most dignity possible. He swiftly concluded there was none to be had and swung a leg over. He pointedly positioned himself as far away from Anderson as possible and placed a hand behind him for stability.

"Not if I tell no one. Don't touch anything with a sensor," he warned.

Despite the delight he took in Dredd's chagrin, his mouth sincerely drokking smarted and he was anxious to get back to the Hall. He banked hard on the first turn once they emerged from the courtyard and sent Dredd reeling forward. Catching Anderson's hips for balance, he retracted his gloved hands like he'd just dipped them in some flesh-eating acid and settled them on the seat between them. Cass snuck a furtive glance at his rear view mirror to take in Dredd's ominous frown looming behind him. _What sweet blackmail this could make_, he thought. He also thought to give a wiggle of his hips backward, but Dredd always seemed to teeter on the edge of an aneurysm and he wasn't feeling up to his wrath at the moment.

In a rare flash of mercy, he turned down the side entrance to the Hall and let Dredd stumble off before jetting away towards Psi-Div, half giggling despite the fault line of a scar tearing into his smirk.

Cass trudged away from the medical center, murmuring to himself that he was getting real drokking tired of ending every day with a new set of lacerations. This one looked and felt like it was going to be a little more permanent, and he had some particular interest in maintaining the many ways his mouth could get him what he wanted. Where his eyes usually evaluated the area for something new to chase-usually a person-he locked them ahead as his glower deepened.

Resentfully, he thought Dredd may have rubbed off on him in the four months since the Peach Trees incident. Four months since his first day on the streets with Dredd. Four months since he was shot with a real round for the first time. Four months since he was made a judge. Four since Dredd apparently decided his name would always be "rookie" or "Anderson!" at varying decibels. He trudged on.

"Maybe…" he mumbled to himself, swiping a hand through his blood spattered blond flop. He considered his favorite method of wasting time past midnight. Any one of his standard pass-the-time hookups would instantly seize on the wound and incorporate it into some odd new kink. Usually, he'd be all for that but as he rolled the idea around in his head, it made him cringe. He shoved his hands into his pockets and dismissed the notion of a quick fuck to take his mind off the new addition to his face with some exasperation. He certainly wasn't going to skulk back to his own bed in defeat, so he resigned himself to the lonely and oft deserted shooting range deep in the basement of the Hall.

When he arrived, the sad bot that attended it bleeped in surprise and gleefully greeted him, starting to sort out cartridges and a practice 'giver for him.

"Would you like to hear your stats from your last session, dated one…year ago?" it chattered at him. It stuttered for a second on "year" as it was far more regularly accustomed to producing "week" or even "day" for almost every other judge who could be bothered to practice their marksmanship. Anderson sighed. That one statement was all the anxiety he had about coming back to practice rolled into one.

"Can we not?" he accepted the weapon and dragged himself over to one of the galleries. Easing himself into place in front of the stationary target, he fired a couple of experimental rounds. They sprayed the walls behind, around and under the target as Cass fought the recoil. He dropped his head and exhaled in irritation.

"Are they still doing that thing with the inaccuracy?" he cast over his shoulder to where the bot hovered with additional rounds.

"The accuracy is reduced by 75% because in field situations…" the bot started chirpily.

"You're only 25% as accurate when you're under stress. I recall," Anderson talked over him, thinking about the smoking hole he left in the wall above the head of the person who'd just carved an effective signature into his face moments before it happened.

Cass decided to start in on some of the movement-and-cover targets, hoping he was better at following cues to duck than trying to force himself to aim correctly. Perhaps defense was better than offense in this case.

He stepped into the practice space and followed the cues for cover almost flawlessly. The bot gave its cue for him to pop out from cover to strike, and he reacted instantly.

Cass wheeled around, pinpointed the center of the target's psychic emanations and unloaded the remainder of his clip dead into him.

_Drokk._

Dredd grunted in irritation, looked down at his chest plate and flicked each crumpled shell off his chest one by one.

Cass still held his weapon level, but his mouth fell open. The instant of shock nullified the pain of the action and he breathed out a low "drokk me…"

"I, um," he started to explain, painfully of aware of what he'd labeled Dredd's "I'm waiting, rookie," stance.

Dredd helpfully turned to the bot and ordered out practice rounds for himself, moving into the gallery next to Anderson.

Cass still stood there sort of gawping, wondering if he was going to be sentenced and executed with practice rounds. _Because really_, he thought, _i'm a pathetic fucking marksman but I can't actually piss him off that much_.

"Well?" Dredd prompted, gesturing to the space next to him.

Anderson was still cautious, trying to read Dredd, but the only thing appearing was a disturbingly staccato cycle of marksman training exercises. _What a creepy fucking thing to memorize with that much clarity,_ he thought hazily, sliding into the gallery next to Dredd and resetting his weapon. As it clicked, a series of exceptionally loud shots embedded themselves in the target in an orderly sequence of neck, chest, chest, head. Cass titled his head to examine it, certain that the echo of the shots really had been more resounding when Dredd did it.

Dredd tilted his head into Cass' line of vision and gestured towards Cass' target with his gun.

Cass was just looping back around into being disturbed that his sometimes partner and possible impending executioner just shrugged off a load of rounds to the chest to do what he did.

He craned his head in an attempt to detect the smallest twinge in Dredd's permascowl that might indicate…something. He distantly remembered the bot hovering near him while waiting for the med droids on his last visit. As his calf oozed sticky blood where the practice round had lodged itself after a poorly placed ricochet on his part, it rattled on about the purpose for maintaining the pain just below the point of lethality to instill in rookies an appropriate fear of getting shot. Cass remembered his eyes watering as he alternated clutching his leg and sweating in shock, looked at Dredd's composed face, and cringed.

He stepped forward, trying to steady himself and align so he couldn't flinch when the recoil derailed his decent setup.

"Grud's sake, the drokk is that?" Dredd finally broke his silence.

Cass slipped back into his casual regard the moment Dredd dropped the scary silence pretense, huffily dropping his arms and turning to face him. "Me. Standing. Problem?"

Dredd's head tipped in what Cass had worked out was his "I'm rolling my eyes" equivalent. Summoning the bot with a crooked finger, he dropped his weapon on its tray and started to peel his gloves and radio off, discarding those too.

Cass' eyes widened as he started to pull the zipper of his outer armor down, shrugging it off and dropping it to the ground with a flat, heavy clunk. He didn't think he'd ever actually _exasperated_ someone into stripping down for him. Dredd stopped at the regulation undershirt, snatching the practice gun back up and taking up a square stance at the target, repeating the previous pattern. Cass involuntarily stepped back.

"Like that," Dredd concluded, turning to Cass and gesturing again to the space beside him. Cass looked skeptically at the odd proportion of his helmet to his body. He was kind of surprised to find that Dredd could remove the uniform at all, and that he wasn't shaped exactly like underneath, badge and all. Once he had started to look down at his body, he really didn't want to venture any lower because for Grud's sake it was _Dredd_. He turned quickly and tried to copy the stance next to the taller man again.

Furrowing his brow and shuffling his feet into place, he heard Dredd issue another exhalation of impatience and glanced back over. "What now?" he asked.

"This. Look at my shoulders, look where my arms are aligned." He demonstrated again.

Given full permission, a slight shade of amusement crawled up Cass' face as he accepted the invitation.

_Just following orders_.

He took in more of the very capable form that lacked so much of the overworked bulk he had expected. The tendons in his shoulders didn't twitch; it seemed that once he settled on a position he could hold it interminably. It was kind of beautiful to Cass, in a way that stems from watching someone arrest and execute people every day. Admirable. That was the word. Suddenly his scapula jumped as he turned around to ask if Cass had understood. Cass had very sufficiently noted how he held himself and bounded back to his place to imitate it. Squaring his shoulders back and bracing to compensate for his much smaller frame, he fired four shots.

One landed, albeit in the lower part of the target's ribcage. Cass shrugged contentedly. Close enough. He looked to Dredd with a glint of pride, expecting approval.

Dredd slowly swiveled his head, shook it negatively, and stepped back to show him again. Cass leaned against one of the dividers in the gallery, crossing his ankles and watching him explain (mostly in gestures and monosyllables) what to do.

"Are you actually looking at where these are going?" Dredd asked.

From where Cass was leaning, he could be hitting fuck all with his shots. He had been busy examining the way his supporting hand curled underneath his firing hand, indenting the flesh on his wrist the same way he had gripped Cass' jaw to steady it when stapling his mouth earlier. Sure it was a weird thing to fixate on, but he had found himself wondering if anyone had ever seen Dredd's hands, even bound in protective tape as they were. Stomm, for that matter, had anyone ever felt them as anything but a prelude to becoming a corpse?

He jolted forward, moving behind him to better attend to what he was supposed to be learning.

"You flail," Dredd explained as he showed him again, now that Anderson's attempt at a decent posture actually showed a dim ray of hope for improvement.

"I do not flail," he protested, gesturing to himself. He realized the ridiculousness of his attempt at evidence. Anderson was built like a reed. No one had ever given less than hysterical praise for his body, all pointed hipbones, undeniably attractive features and lithe suggestiveness that it was, but there was absolutely no denying his lankiness and decentralized limb control.

Dredd gave a little "hmp" noise.

Cass squinted at him and his lips parted in surprise. "Did you just…was that like, you, laughing? Mocking me? Deriding me? Emoting?"

"No," he deadpanned, no hint of movement on his face.

"I can't tell if you're hilarious or actually that switched off," Cass commented, still trying to school himself into accepting the weapon's recoil appropriately.

He tried to imagine Dredd actually laughing and realized that the image he conjured would go down as one of the most unsettling fragments of his day. He rather vainly wished it wouldn't be one of the most memorable, but things like that tended to linger for Cass. People just…_behaving_ around him was highly infrequent. If they knew he could read them, they were a jumble of nervous attempts to disguise any veritable personal attributes whatsoever. Whatever Dredd was, the way he functioned even in light of his total inability to school his mental projections was completely fascinating. In a way, Cass felt it was more intimate than reading anyone else because of the total fluidity between what Dredd thought and what he did. He was wholly decisive and his convictions were unshakable. It made Cass a little more reverent for the imbalance inherent in sending a Psi-Judge like him out into the field with Dredd.

Cass watched Dredd translate mental intention into physical actuality over and over in the practice range for most of the night, thinking, _What a clusterfuck of a day. _


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, yes, the fish thing is fucking weird. It's also not my fault. There is a Judge Cal modeled on Caligula, and he does name Judge Fish his successor. It's absurdist Dredd comics at their finest; read _The Day the Law Died._ And naw, the history of Judge Cal trying to send Dredd to Titan might come later.

Mostly, it's a bridge chapter because I needed one...

* * *

"Anderson," the summons rang out in the assembly hall unmistakably. Cass heard Dredd heave a breath beside him. There were more than a few Andersons, but there's only one that made people spit out the surname like it was sour milk. Dredd and Cass had just returned from a fairly routine patrol and were about to head their separate ways when the entire Hall had reverberated with the force of the call to assembly.

Dredd had reeled for a moment, glancing around to see if anyone would notice him heading the opposite way but Cass shook his head and dipped into the throng of Judges.

All on-shift Judges trailed to the large central chamber of the hall and settled in promptly, if grudgingly.

"Cass. Anderson." the clipped tone repeated.

"…I miss CJ…" Cass whimpered, alluding to the Chief Judge who shoved him into Dredd's life. This new one was somewhat…unhinged. Even Dredd seemed to eye him skeptically.

Dredd turned to regard Anderson. Typical scowl. Typical _why am I at a drokking assembly_ face.

"Yes, your majesty?" Cass called upon rising.

"A demerit, Judge Anderson." Judge Cal hung onto his words entirely too long. It wasn't the only reason his reputation was suffering only a week into his tenure, but it was certainly exploitable for parody.

"Only rookies get-" he mumbled. He gingerly stepped over Dredd to reach the aisle of the silly-looking bleachers and heard Dredd hiss "close enough."

Shooting him a mutinous glare, Cass carried on a lanky stroll to the foot of where Judge Cal was presiding. He was wearing the traditional robes of a judge, flowing and pompous. Cass tilted his head and concluded that he, in fact, hated this asshole.

"Cass Anderson…" he started to declare. Stopping, "What is Cass short for? You demean the Hall by dishonoring your given name."

A small glub-glub sound could almost have been mistaken for an emphatic punctuation. If it hadn't come from a round bowl labeled "Judge Fish." There was a dull looking little creature inside, aimlessly bumping into the curved confines of its cage. No one had yet tried to point out the fact that appointing a sea creature as your successor was not only illegal but a billowing red banner of the perpetrator's batfuck mental state.

_What a colossal dick. _ "That's all I've ever been called, man. Just Cass," he scratched the back of his neck and looked anxiously at the Judges and rookies shifting in the impromptu assembly.

"Another…demerit."

Cass rolled his eyes and inflated his cheeks at the Judge's scaly companion.

"Another."

"Is there some sort of point to this?"

"Another."

Cass sealed up and leveled his gaze, arms respectfully clasped behind his back.

"You've been accused of fraternization with fellow judges, Anderson."

"Have I?" he leered, wheeling around to wave to the crowd. He was 100% certain a few conquests were perched there and he offered a particularly generous, friendly wave.

"Demerit-You plead-?" he poised a pen where he had been recording the demerits.

"Not entirely guilty?" he turned and addressed the assembly: "Raise your hand if I absolutely, undeniably, _have not_ attempted to or succeeded in fucking you? Poor phrasing-if I attempted, you said yes so RAISE YOUR HAND IF I HAVE NOT GOTTEN SOME!"

Not a single judge moved.

Cal rose and smiled. "Well? It's a reasonable method to ascertain his guilt! Go on!" He looked smug-the assembly hall had always been equipped with universal lie-detecting fields. He'd be able to squash Anderson and a bonus few extra judges.

Cass looked more smug. He was also privy to the fields and how they interacted with every Judge's suit when online.

Dredd looked like he was fucking boiling to death as he poked a hand up.

About ninety five percent of the room raised an arm, some proudly, some sheepishly, some hesitantly. One brave kid tried to lift an arm and was instantly electrocuted. Cass didn't seem to remember _that_ particular feature of it and felt a twinge of guilt. He'd only really managed to get the guy out of his shirt, even. A few hands near him shot up instantly, the humans attached to them sighed relief as their truthfulness was validated.

Cal's magnanimous grin began to shrink as he noted the remaining five percent. As he took stock of the demographic, his scowl looked more impressive than Dredd's. Those with hands folded in their laps or nervously twiddling were almost entirely Senior Street Judges. All elite, forsworn, exceptionally skilled and ridiculously devoted specialists who had approximately twenty years of life and thirty years experience on Anderson. Cal couldn't just Stalin out and lose his top ten percent.

Cass turned casually. Quirking his mouth he suggested, "Guilty?"

Cal sat back moodily. slumping with steepled fingers. After a moment of contemplation, he leaned conspiratorially towards the bowl and carried on a series of nods and behind-the-hand whispers. Notably, the fish he was addressing could neither nod or whisper. It helpfully supplied a "glub" sound, but that was it.

Audience members, which realistically how the assembly began to feel, were starting to drop their hands and Cass was pacing in annoyance. Fraternization regs were pointless and unenforceable, and whatever happened to him couldn't be a strong enough deterrent to make him stop. He turned to give his one-sided grin to a redhead in the front row of the bleachers. She shyly cast her face down and Cass sighed in annoyance, continuing to pace.

"Perhaps you will be better reminded that your body belongs to the Hall if you're stripped of the uniform. Surrender it."

Cass pinched the bridge of his nose. This was a waste of time.

"Sure," and he turned on his heel to leave his issued armor at requisitions. His third stride had barely fallen when a simple, "No" rang out. He froze, set his jaw, and turned.

Cal continued, "Here. It might help everyone remember."

Cass was many things, but exhibitionism did extraordinarily little to get him off. He recognized that this situation could either be extremely violating or thunderously empowering, so he slowly returned to the center of the room before Judge Cal. Fusing his eyes to the Judge, he tried to read what Cal wanted to accomplish. The Judge's mind was one of the most indecipherable messes he'd ever tried to poke at, reminding him in an almost textbook manner of how reading a personality disorder felt.

Cass let his slow, right-corner-to-crooked-left-corner smile appear on his scarred mouth as he unholstered his 'giver and dropped it at his feet. If he was going to feel uncomfortable about this, he sure as drokk was bringing absolutely everyone with him. Conveniently enough, it was an excellent forum to prove how batshit Judge Cal was.

Cass turned in profile and sought out Dredd's loud forecast of thoughts among the nervous crowd. He caught only the sentiment of Dredd trying to parse out the most economical way to assassinate a fish and fully turned to throw Dredd a look of sheer perturbation. A little support would have been nice; Cass was appalled by receiving less attention than a grud forsaken fish. He turned forward, set his shoulders square to the now leering Judge and his deputies. He made measured eye contact with each as he discarded layer after layer of clothing, stepping out of his boots and purposefully tugging off the tight regulation undershirt and pants. Cass stood, defiantly naked, as his body was raked over. The collision of everyone's impressions were starting to give him a slight headache.

Dredd shifted forward in his seat to facilitate rising swiftly. The grin spreading on Cass' face revealed the same malice in his eyes that Dredd had seen when the perp had sliced his mouth open a couple of weeks ago. It was intentionally unsettling but unintentionally betrayed Cass as a little more than a constantly snarking, anything-goes kid.

"I'm going to be needing these, thanks," he explained as he slipped back on his boots and strode out of the chamber, starkly nude, holding his 'giver for lack of a holster.

Dredd rose slowly with the rest of the assembly and made himself inconspicuous (as much as his stature would allow) as he exited.

Cass walked all the way back to his quarters in Psi-Div at a measured pace, creepily eyeing anyone who eyed him, sometimes with a flick of his tongue or a lecherous wink. Once back inside his own space, he dropped the weapon and lost the boots, sliding one leg into one of many tight pairs of pants littering his floor. He was extending his other leg when the door behind him slid open and Dredd filled its frame.

"Seriously?" he simpered, finally getting his pants on and putting his hands on his hips.

"Seriously?" Dredd mocked, pointing to his shoulder. A gorgeous rendering of an eagle mirrored the style of eagle pauldron Dredd's highly decorated uniform bore. Instead of harsh, it struck Dredd immediately as far more elegant than his armour with the way its wings sprawled over his chest and upper back, curling into the contour's of Anderson's body. Still, the tattoo surprised him. Not that Cass didn't already half resemble a shitty perp kid, but that the embellishment on his flesh seemed too carefully chosen to be some idiotic rebellion.

"Just because I don't necessarily pleasure myself to the Law doesn't mean that my work doesn't matter." Cass sounded surly. Dredd didn't know how to respond; he was the one to surl, Cass was the surl-ee. The moment couldn't tolerate two people grumping at each other. He clawed around his pristinely ordered mind for something…lighter to say. Not like a joke (he didn't understand or know anything of such a description) but he had some vague sense that Cass had been offended.

"We have work to do," was the lame proclamation.

"Not to be _offensive_" (_There it is, _Dredd realized) "but I'm going to have lots of indiscriminate sex and not think about you or any of this for quite a few hours. Fuck off. Please," he turned and didn't watch Dredd retreat in annoyance.

Three hours later, Dredd had successfully worn himself out doing actual case reading and educating himself about Judge Cal's unique brand of bullshit. He looked at the carefully curated stack of cases for which he absolutely needed his Psi Judge and scooped them up in one arm, sure that Cass would be ready to break some faces with him.

Unbeknownst to Anderson, Dredd's measurement of "a few hours" corresponded precisely with this moment, three hours after he had found and apologized to the kid who had been zapped and allowed himself to be tied to his own bed. Unlike Dredd, he was not yet successfully worn out. But he was distracted. The kid (Evan, he had learned) was presently getting some magnificent, mutually excellent revenge with his mouth wrapped around Cass' length, teasing him into a twisting, writhing mess. He squirmed, wanting desperately to press down on his partner's head or beg to be inside him, but his thrashing stopped as he took notice of something filling the doorframe and stopping short.

Dredd's mouth fell ever-so-slightly open and Cass gave a silent chuckle, rolling his face towards Dredd. He couldn't use his tied arms to interrupt or advance what was happening, and so settled on holding his gaze just as the man attending to his lap brought him over the edge. Cass gave a satiated smile and winked as Dredd stoically removed himself from the doorway and clutched his files a little tighter.


End file.
